


dripping ichor.

by kinzukuroii



Category: The Arcana (Visual Novel)
Genre: Celtic Mythology & Folklore, Mentions of Morga and Montag, Other, References to Norse Religion & Lore, Witchcraft, a lot of the violence happens to our protagonist when they're a kid, its gonna be pretty lengthy, made up countries!made up locations!oh boy!, maybe some romance laterr, so be warned if you don't like the image of kids getting hurt, so really it could just be a standalone fic, the warnings are there for a reason!!, this is just the origin of my apprentice, uhhh
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-28
Updated: 2019-01-02
Packaged: 2019-09-29 10:06:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,001
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17201486
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinzukuroii/pseuds/kinzukuroii
Summary: Their lungs felt as though they were crying for help, crushed under the weight of their mother's venomous stare as she swept forward, rushing upon them in a ghastly vision. Her hands, twitching and blood-stained, filled their petrified sight. Why was Papa still lying down? The shadows grew from cobwebbed corners stretching and writhing until they rolled first over his body, then hers, then theirs. Stone and thatch fell away into a whirlwind, yet red filled their vision as she continued upon them like a wailing banshee, a woman possessed."I will never be happy, so long as you haunt me!"





	1. prologue.

Yngvild looked upon him with eyes that shone like gems, burning amber that looked freshly fallen from the maple trees that stood mighty in the surrounding forest.

He was handsome, he was tall, and he was gentle. In the face of sneering villagers, he looked upon Yngvild with kindness, with unequivocal consideration that made Yngvild clutch her cloak's broach whenever he'd approach, fresh from that day's hard work at the smithy. He always smelled like hot steel and sweat-- it became the scent of the nectar of the fruit forbidden, a tantalizing dream to partake in whenever she'd gaze into the flames of her hearth each night. Yngvild, with each passing day, took steps closer to the divide between them both, lingering longer by the jump each time with twitching fingers and greedy eyes. 

He was the prize sitting amongst rolling hills of green, vibrant and far from her own dying meadow. Yngvild toed the divide and whined, calling him over until he too stood with his toes hanging over the line. 

He, a smithy respected and loved by all in his village; She, a witch with first loyalty to blood, a loyalty she happily abandoned in favor of a sweeter prize.

Yngvild clung to him like a falcon to fish, greedy claws burrowing deeper in his side until he left his work, trailing behind her as she led them both to a life quiet, amongst the rolling hills and desaturated green of a small village. Here, Yngvild knew, she could keep him _safe_ , away from prying eyes that burrowed and cut deep into her. For him, she'd stow them both away, and become the bride he'd want-- doting, sweet, soft, and _normal_.

And with time, she'd grow to accommodate the rest of his desires. She'd mold herself into whatever he desired her to be; and soon, he wanted more than a wife, but a mother. Heavy-breasted, wide, and with hair lighter than starlight, Yngvild offered all she was to keep him there, tethered to her in that small village. A possession to be had is what she would become, so long as he promised to _stay_ in breathless whispers pressed against her bosom that night.

Her middle would grow wide, swollen with his child, and Yngvild couldn't help the gurgling animosity that flared whenever he'd kiss her stomach, but never her mouth. He'd call to his sweet _muirnīn_ , his _storeen_ , his feet-aching, innards-pushing, aggravating little _cushlamachree_.

Diorbhail, he had named it, when it had finally, finally left Yngvild's body with a grating wail and an ugly, twisted, poppy-red face. A gift from God, he had said, as he cradled it and cooed to it and it settled to silence in his hold. He handed it back for Yngvild to feed and it erupted into shrieks once more, twisting in Yngvild's hold. He was disappointed, Yngvild knew it, and she smothered the babe with her breast once he left the cottage to gather firewood, and Yngvild wondered how long it could go without air. Perhaps he would hold her again, if Yngvild looked distraught with their baby dead in its bed. Maybe he'd love her again, if only to bear another. So long as he _loved_ her.

Diorbhail wailed into the night until it's father came stumbling over, quick to abandon Yngvild's side as he tended to his baby. 

Oh, how Yngvild wished for silence.


	2. dh’èirich mi moch madainn cheòthar.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Fairy man,” they call, in an accented voice that muddled up their “r”. “Fairy man!”
> 
>  
> 
> _‘sa phiuthar, ‘sa phiuthar, come, come!_

“Yngvild,” Brennus calls, peering around the corner of the hall to spot his wife moving toward the hearth, her arms full of spices. She perks up, turning her head and smiling in that feeble, fragile way of hers. Her hair, matted and plaited, swings around her shoulders bared by the ill-fit of her nightgown and Brennus watches for a moment before continuing. “Have you seen Diorbhail? Been awful quiet around here since this morning.”

He doesn’t miss the way Yngvild wilts, just a smidge, and turns to the hearth. “Haven’t seen her. Maybe she went out playing.”

“Alone?!” Brennus swings on a jacket from the rack he had approached before growing too uncomfortable with the lack of small footfalls and equally rapid, idle chatter, and adjusts his sleeves before marching past Yngvild. The woman looks up, golden eyes flashing. 

“Where are you headed? It’s nearly time for breakfast!”

“To find our daughter,” Brennus grunts, heading out into the misty morning without so much as a glance at his wife, who clutched her handful of herbs and frowned in that tight, immovable way of hers. Forcefully, she threw the powdered mix down into the cauldron, just as the door slammed behind her husband.

Strathyre was quiet that morning-- it always was. Such a quiet village drowned further in the noise of the sea, meters below them beyond the craggy peak where the most lopsided homes stood. Most other cottages were kept in the center of one of the few, flat pieces of land, surrounding a cobbled plaza crowned by a fountain that never ran. The only folks really out during the early hours of the morning were the crones and their daughters, all mothers of at least two, doing laundry and chattering amongst themselves.

As it stood, Strathyre was mostly women. Men often journeyed out as merchants, or as sailors, to earn for their charges and see the country and even beyond that. The children would emerge later that day, when the sun was highest and most of the frost and mist had melted off. They’d scream and play, their noise echoing up the rising hills and seeping only inches into the forest, before the trees ate up the noise. All the same, the sounds of the village seldom reached the weary hut at the top of a treeless hill-- where Brennus and his family lived. 

Brennus stuffed his hands away into his pockets and marched toward the lines of trees, south of the hut, light blue eyes focused and the shadows that deepened the further into the wood that they reached. The chill of hour reached through the tweed of his jacket, biting into his skin and forcing a shiver that began in his knees, that largely went ignored. Brennus continued, unfettered, beyond the first line of trees and followed a practiced path, his boots falling into familiar divets in the mulch and between the gnarled, exposed roots of the trees. The brush shook and trembled as he passed, taking in animals scrambling to hide from his booming steps and heavy breathing.  
“Diorbhail!” Brennus called, rubbing his reddened nose. “Diorbhail, come home!”

“Diorbhail!”

.  
.  
.

_Diorbhail!_

Tiny hands reached out to dancing lights, and failed to connect, sending the owner to the cold ground. Diorbhail, with red cheeks and a leaking nose, split into a squishy smile. Even with missing teeth and ruddy cheeks, the child resembled a round, red apple. The lights flickered closer, and laughter cycloned about the small clearing. Around Diorbhail, the ring of mushrooms they sat in shifted and sighed. The shadows grew lighter, and the mist creeped around their stumpy legs like a blanket.

_Closer, closer still._

Diorbhail gurgles with laughter as the lights flutter down to their pudgy fingers, landing on their hands and tugging, tugging. Diorbhail yanks their hands free to begin standing again, wobbly and novice, but standing all the same. They offer their hands again and the lights take them, tugging, and they follow, giggling.

In the trees, a shock of red bleeds into view. Wild hair that stood like flames, licking at the canopy, and it turned as ruddy brown eyes stared beyond the thrush. Diorbhail takes an assisted step, the tugging at their hands more insistent, and their gold eyes meet those brown ones. Another smile appears with another bubbly laugh.

“Fairy man,” they call, in an accented voice that muddled up their “r”. “Fairy man!”

_‘sa phiuthar, ‘sa phiuthar, come, come!_

Diorbhail takes another step, laughing and mumbling along with the singsong voices. Their voice tripped and wobbled over the syllables, and in the end, Diorbhail sang nothing but nonsense, and received teasing laughter in return. The shadows melted away some more, and the red head of hair grew brighter, and the outline of a body, sinewy and imposing, became more obvious. The lights buzzed about quicker now, and Diorbhail raised a foot to step beyond the ring--

“Diorbhail!”

Hands shot out to snatch Diorbhail upwards, ripping them away from the lights. Diorbhail tore their eyes from the darkening shadow and looked up, smiling at the sight of their haggard father.

“Papa,” Diorbhail coos, grabbing onto his tweed jacket and kicking their little legs. Brennus huffs and stares blindly into the darkness of the forest, and he looks down, stumbling backwards when he notices his boot nudging a small mushroom. His heart beats against his chest, and Diorbhail tilts their head. The lights fade from their sight and the red-headed man is gone, and Diorbhail finds that the only color left to focus on is the sandy blonde of their father’s hair and the familiar brown of his wide eyes.

“Papa,” Diorbhail says again. He looks at them, and his hand stiffens on their back. They wave a short arm towards the sleepy forest, fingers wriggling. “Tiny people! You scared them!”

“Oh, Diorbhail,” Brennus sighs, adjusting them in his arms, Diorbhail squeaks and turns their head when he begins to walk out of the forest, the same way he entered, and leave the clearing behind.

“Troublesome girl,” Brennus mutters, forcefully turning Diorbhail away from the forest and towards the cloudy sky of the horizon as he slips free of the woods, headed back towards the hut. Diorbhail whimpers at his tight grip. “We do not invite the _Aos Sí_ so close. You’ll be snatched away into their world!”

Diorbhail’s eyes widen when Brennus fixes them with a scalding, chastising glare. “Why do you always run off? The villagers will think you a changeling, mo ghrá. Worse yet, I’ll never see you again once you run off for good.”

“The forest is dangerous,” he continues, setting Diorbhail onto the ground and yet seizing their hand, his grip unyielding and oppressive. Diorbhail looks back at the woods, in time to see a speck of red ducking behind the trees. “Too many ways for a child to die. Do you enjoy making me worry? One day I won’t be able to find you, and what then?”

“Sorry, papa,” Diorbhail mutters, stumbling after him when he tugs them along, back home. He pushes them inside first before stepping inside behind them, latching the door shut and nudging further inside. Diorbhail stumbles before tottering over to their mother, who pauses in her pouring of whatever porridge she had made.

“Oh,” she says plainly, setting aside a ladle and grabbing the two bowls she prepared, her eyes flickering to Brennus, who shed his jacket and hung it from a nearby stray nail. Diorbhail stood by, eyes on their mother, still in their coat and boots. “You found her.”

“Playing in a _ring_ ,” Brennus adds bitterly, kneeling down to undo the clasps on Diorbhail’s jacket before taking it off them. Diorbhail shakes their head and walks closer to Yngvild, pointing at one of the bowls. Yngvild’s lip curls and she looks to Brennus, whose eyes were trained on her, narrowed and watchful. Yngvild withholds a growl, leaving it to simmer in her chest, before she lowers a bowl for Diorbhail to grab. They bounce on the balls of their feet and take the bowl in their small hands, immediately raising it to their lips and drinking down their breakfast. Yngvild hands the other bowl to Brennus before returning to the cauldron over the fire, stirring its contents before preparing her own bowl.

Brennus puts a rough hand atop Diorbhail’s head as they lick their lips and they look up, eyes wide as their father reaches down to wipe a bit of porridge from their cheek. 

“You’re filthy, mo ghrá,” he sighs, wiping off his finger on his trousers. “...But at least you’re safe.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is the title of a Scottish Gaelic song by Julie Fowlis! Here's some translations:
> 
> _Dh’èirich mi moch madainn cheòthar_ \- I arose early on a misty morning
> 
> _mo ghrá_ \- my love
> 
> _Aos sí_ \- People of the Mounds ; a term for a supernatural race in Irish and Scottish mythology, comparable to fairies and elves. It is said that rings of mushrooms were where fairies danced, and stepping in one would, according to multiple myths, either force you to dance with the fairies within until you died from exhaustion, caused you to disappear from the mortal world, unable to leave, disappear to the fairy world, lose an eye, etc. You can avoid this by not stepping in, running around the ring nine times, or running around the ring once during a full moon in the direction the sun travels during the day.
> 
> For all intents and purposes, Diorbhail ran nine times around the ring without realizing and stepped in. Had Brennus not snatched them out when he had, they would have been lured away into the fairy world. Funnily enough, these same fairy rings were also called witches' rings, said to be created after witches did their witching during the night. 
> 
> Funny but not important: fairy rings were also said to be where the devil put his butter churn during the night, so nothing could grow within the ring, just around it. You could also avoid a terrible fate by wearing your hat backwards before stepping inside a ring. Just fun folklore!

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me @kinzukuroii.tumblr for imagines!
> 
> Follow me @muthary.tumblr for Arcana-only content!


End file.
